


At Your Best

by lipszarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Shower Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipszarry/pseuds/lipszarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn Malik is a world-famous solo artist. Harry Styles is the songwriter hired to help work on his new album. They don't really know how to communicate their feelings-- at least not at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Your Best

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: This is a work of complete fiction. Never happened, not real, no offense is intended. Absolutely does not reflect upon the real life people mentioned in this fictional story. No profit is being made from this work. The story, and its characters, belong to me. Please do not repost anywhere and do not print/distribute. Please do not translate my story, as I am not authorizing translations at this time. This is all meant to be just silly fun.**

_"So much light and so empty."_

**— Franz Kafka, Diaries**

**\---**

“You're not serious, right?”

Zayn Malik stood from a long table with the tips of his fingers spread over the cold glass, as his voice echoed within the studio. The burst of an afternoon sun slanted through the large floor to ceiling windows behind him to cast long shadows throughout the conference room. He paused, surveying the row of older men across from him as they exchanged nervous glances between one another, before continuing.

“Because if you are serious, that means you hired some stranger to write my album. Someone I’ve never even heard of, for that matter,” Zayn took a sip from the glass of white wine he held in one hand, tumbling into his leather seat. “And even worse: without consulting me.”

Nobody said a word, and each second seemed to stretch for hours. Zayn finished the drink he’d been nursing for the past half-hour, slamming it down against the table loudly, causing the man seated on the far right to jump a little in his seat. “Well? I’m waiting.”

Sam Garey, a man in his late fifties who sat directly opposite him and happened to be Zayn’s manager, spoke up first. He smoothed his hands over the wrinkled front of his suit, standing up to meet his demanding gaze.

“Don’t be stupid, I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He’s a talented lyricist and has been in the business for years, Zayn. Mr. Styles may not have the exact outlook you’re looking for, but I’m sure it’ll do you some good to experiment with your sound.” he said forcefully.

“I don’t need a new sound, though,” Zayn said, indignantly. “I’ve got plenty!”

“Zayn,” Garey warned, his voice dropping an octave. He motioned toward him, beckoning him into the other room. Zayn huffed, pushing himself up from his seat, and followed him into the break room. It was small and rather compact compared to the conference room, with hardly any light except the dim lamp overhead that flickered on every now and then.

“Listen, kid, you’re talented. But this album is not going to write itself. We hired him, yeah, but nothing’s finalized yet. We need your permission, then we can get this show on the road. Literally. Just talk to the guy, I’m sure you’ll see what I mean.” he said sternly.

“What if I don’t want to talk to him?” Zayn challenged.

Garey chuckled, “Too bad. He’s already here, waiting outside. I’ll ring him up in a bit. Just wanted to deliver the good new first.” He clapped Zayn on the back, and shuffled out of the break room, his face bright, pleased that this had all gone his way,

“Wait--” Zayn blurted out pathetically, still a little confused as to what had just occurred. His mind raced, trying to keep up, as he followed dumbly behind his manager, feeling like a confused child.

The quiet murmurs between the remaining members of Zayn’s staff were silenced the second he reentered the room. Zayn shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, realizing how irrationally he’d acted toward the men earlier. Scratching the back of his neck, he quickly made his way to his seat, mumbling a ‘sorry’ as he passed them. 

They sat there in silence for a bit, until there’s a soft knock on the door behind Zayn, so quiet it’s barely audible. 

“Excuse me?” a voice said from behind the door, quiet but firm, slightly rough with a Northerner’s broad vowels. The kind of voice that could fill a room without needing to yell. 

“That’s him!” Garey said, leaping up from his seat and down the hall to let the man in. Zayn didn’t know what to expect, swiveling back and forth in his chair. The writers who had worked with him before had always been much older, with impatient personalities and never responded much when Zayn tried to befriend them. So Zayn didn’t really expect much. He couldn’t really expect anything, not with Garey behind him already announcing. “Before we make any confirmations, I want you to meet Harry, make sure there won’t be any problems. Malik, this is Harry Styles. Harry, this is Zayn Malik.”

Zayn turns in his chair to greet him. 

His first impression is how tall this man is. Zayn's not short per say-- he's taller than the majority of his colleagues-- but he's not tall, either. Zayn can tell that this man, however, is. Even though he's seated, he can tell the stranger has a good three, maybe four inches on him. 

As if his first impression doesn't intimidate him enough, the second hits like a thunderbolt: he's impossibly hot. 

Dark hair lies in thick curls a little bit past his collarbones, large sunglasses shielding his eyes. He wears all black, from his half open, sheer button up to his trousers. His black trench is artfully wilted over his muscled torso and the silver cross necklace draped around his neck swings a bit when he leans forward to extend his hand. Rings glimmer on each of his long fingers.

"Harry." Zayn says finally, shaking his hand. Zayn likes the way Harry's hand feels, he thinks. It's soft and warm, not calloused and rough like most writers' are from gripping a pen too long.

"I'm going to help write on your next album." Harry adds, sliding a hand through his hair.The way he looks over at Zayn so nervously makes him want to laugh.

"I'm well aware." Zayn licks his lips, swallowing dryly.

-

The majority of the afternoon is spent filing paperwork. The entire floor is buzzing with staff members rushing back and forth, conversing in hushed voices as they go about their work. 

Zayn sits, slumped over in the soft cushion of his chair, his back turned from the rest of the conference room. Around him, he can hear the incessant typing of his interns as they finalize press conferences and appearances over email; and Sam Garey is talking loudly on the phone to someone Zayn thinks could be a producer. 

He doesn’t realize someone’s beside him until they speak, slow and quiet, their breath hot against Zayn’s neck, “Hey.”


End file.
